Widow's Walk
by sidewalk serfer girl
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for the Faye & Spike Community.
1. Why I Have My Grandma's Sad Eyes

**Why I Have My Grandma's Sad Eyes**

* * *

_'Cause this time  
I didn't see it coming  
Couldn't stop the running words  
Out your mouth  
They're leaving me crushed  
Sound louder than bombs  
Hit harder than Mack trucks_

- Kill Hannah

* * *

"None of your fucking business," she spits. Her voice cuts cleanly into the wall of his throat as though she's drawing a pane of shattered glass across it. But there's no mercy in the action. A full spectrum of transient emotions passes through the crisp absinthe-green of her eyes.

An 'oh' almost makes it past his lips but his voice hitches in his throat. The sharpened arch of her eyebrow frames the cat-like geometrics of her eye. She turns away, returning her attention to the book she's holding in her hands – the simple movement, the smooth execution of it, works as effectively as slamming door in his face.

_A Visitation of Sunlight_, Spike whispers to himself.

Walking away, he looks over his shoulder, catches sight of her face between parted pages. Her eyes well and she bites pitilessly into the engorged cushion of her lip. Suddenly Faye is that girl again. The girl he'd wanted to comfort moments earlier.

He'd only wanted to know why she looked so sad.


	2. Seeds of Night

**SEEDS OF NIGHT**

* * *

_Oh, my darling  
We're meadowing now  
Oh love is bold  
In the cricketing fields  
And a sly part of night  
Gets down to get up  
Oh bright light  
Sing me a song  
On and on_

-The Cave Singers

* * *

It's a dark and stormy night. No, really.

The sky and sea are black, and the fog is thick this side of port. Spike finds this sort of darkness unsettling. He starts to worry about straying from his path and falling off the dock instead of onto the ship.

The sound of a match being struck startles him. Faye's eyes, more gold than green in fire's light, peer into his. She touches the flame to the end of her cigarette. Has she been standing right in front of him this entire time?

"I thought you might need a porch light. A guy could lose his way home on a night like this," she says with a practiced air of casualness. He finds her proximity disarming, and her concern suddenly touching. She eyes him carefully.

"You afraid of the dark or something?" she asks. She lights another match and holds it up between them, smirking.

He grins and shakes his head.

"No," he replies. He approaches her slowly and blows out the match between her slight fingers.

She's been standing right in front of him this entire time.


	3. Mind Over Money

**Mind Over Money**

* * *

_Mind over money, bent over backwards  
Light up my life like a very last cigarette  
Time after time dear we will just lie here  
Staring at ceilings it doesn't really matter where we are_

- Turin Breaks

* * *

It looks like more blood than it is, he thinks, watching it run thickly down Faye's forearm like agave nectar. Its colour is severe against the bone-white of her skin.

"Running with scissors," Spike mutters, shaking his head.

Along with the first-aid kit, he's brought scissors. The same ones she'd been running with when she fell. He uses one end of a wet towel to wipe them clean, then another to do the same to her. She cries out, squirms in her seat. Frustrated, he grabs her wrist to keep her still. The sound of her blood being squeezed between his fingers makes his stomach churn.

When the girl is suitably sewn up and bandaged, her gratitude is unexpected.

"Thank you," she says.

He silently leans across the table between them and places a kiss on the bandages wrapped around the length of stitches in her arm, weaving strands of unexplored emotion through them like she's woven threads of herself through his. As far as he's concerned, it's the kiss of death.

Would he have acted so impulsively, otherwise?


	4. Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This

**STOP ME IF YOU THINK YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE BEFORE**

* * *

_I smelt the last ten seconds of life_  
_I crashed down on the crossbar_  
_And the pain was enough to make_  
_A shy, bald, Buddhist reflect_  
_And plan a mass murder_  
_Who said I'd lied to her?_

- The Smiths

* * *

The blade had been drawn expertly across his belly, losing its depth and intensity as the life drained from the master who guided it. That's not to say it didn't hurt as much as it might have otherwise. On the contrary, it hurt like hell. He'd just been butterflied by a katana, after all.

A single regret, out of a thousand that went through his mind before everything went black, was that he had lied to her.

_Are you just going to throw your life away like it was nothing?_

No, wait. That wasn't true, was it? He hadn't _lied_ to Faye exactly.

_I'm not going there to die._

Spike had lied to Vicious when he'd told him that he'd bled all his bad blood away.

He had lied to Julia when he told her this whole thing had been just a bad dream.

_I'm going there to find out if I'm alive._

Okay, maybe he had lied to Faye. But only a little bit.

Or maybe he'd been lying to himself.

There wouldn't be enough time to find out.


	5. Well, I Wonder

**WELL I WONDER**

* * *

_Well I wonder,_  
_Do you hear me when you sleep?_  
_I hoarsely cry_  
_Why?_

_Well I wonder,_  
_Do you see me when we pass?_  
_I half die_  
_Why?_

- The Smiths

* * *

It's been five years, but she looks almost exactly the same. Her hair is pulled back into a smooth, shiny ponytail and she's wearing a black cotton dress cinched tightly around her small waist.

When they pass each other in the street, she seems to look right through him. He's too proud to force eye contact, or even smile, to jog her memory.

The last time they spoke, he was sure that she cared for him.

And it wasn't just because she hadn't shot him in the leg that day, which part of him had been expecting.

She cared for him enough to want him to stay.

Then she cared for him enough to let him go.

How could she not have recognized him?

_Whatever_, he snorts dismissively. _Fuck her_.

He drags hard on his cigarette, flinging what's left of it off to his side.

Spike is startled when two hands close over his eyes.

"Guess who, asshole," a familiar voice says. Spike grins.

"Hey, Romani."


	6. Rubber Ring

**RUBBER RING**

* * *

And when you're dancing and laughing  
And finally living  
Hear my voice in your head  
And think of me kindly

- The Smiths

* * *

_Beloved Comrade._

She's sitting in what little shade the small tombstone has to offer. On sunny days, when they would leave the ship to go on various Bebop-related errands, Faye was always walking either in front of or behind him, depending on where the sun dropped his very long shadow. But this afternoon the sun beats down hard on her and there's no relief. She lies back against the cool stone, giving her legs a good stretch.

She begins peeling the tangerine she's brought along with her and grins. "Miss me?"

Her fingernails cut into it and juice squirts out, just missing her eye.

"That wasn't funny," she says.

_Beloved Jackass._

"I didn't come here just for you, you know. I happened to be in the neighbourhood, and..." Her voice hitches in her throat. She closes her eyes and swallows hard.

_Beloved Idiot._

She finishes eating her tangerine in silence. One hand lingers on the grass beneath her, stroking it gently with her thumb.

Reaching into her pocket, she removes a piece of white chalk. Across the stone, she carefully scrawls:

BELOVED.

She stares at it a moment before standing and wiping the chalk dust from her hands onto the thighs of her jeans, decidedly satisfied with her work.

She turns to leave, but not before placing the tangerine's peel on top of the tombstone.

_Beloved._


	7. Sofia

**SOFIA**

* * *

_5 o'clock and a fire escape symphony  
Spilling out across the road and the square.  
And the sky's the same as your own, do you think of me?  
Do the parks, and trees, and the leaves reach you there?_

_- Nerina Pallot_

* * *

Faye and Spike are standing in an alley, leaning against the wall of a shoe repair shop, facing a nondescript apartment building. Spike carries a large cup of black coffee in his hands, looking about a million miles away as he stares at one of the windows above. Faye is tearing into a heavily iced pastry, looking rather put out.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asks.

He ignores the question, narrowing his eyes at the darkened window, trying to imagine her long hair, her white apron. In reality, from down here, he'd be too far away to see her blue eyes, but he thinks of them anyways. Her lips are never too far away from a smile.

"Goodbye," he says under his breath.

"What?" Faye frowns, suddenly looking worried. He leans over to kiss her just as she's licking a sticky bit of icing from the corner of her mouth. His eyes are open so he can enjoy the surprise in hers. And he does.

"Spike…?"

When she says his name, his heart hurts. It's wonderful.

_Hello._


	8. Wake Up Alone

**Wake Up Alone**

* * *

_It's okay in the day I'm staying busy  
Tied up enough so I don't have to wonder where is he  
Got so sick of crying  
So just lately  
When I catch myself I do a 180  
I stay up clean the house  
At least I'm not drinking  
Run around just so I don't have to think about thinking_

_- Amy Winehouse_

_

* * *

_

The ship is spotless these days. Jet couldn't get the girl to lift a finger before the boy left, but now that he's gone she's become some sort of leather-bound domestic dynamo. Jet ain't complaining.

You can eat off the floors. You can get a bite from the fridge without the fridge biting back.

Jet is having his coffee. His feet are up on the couch. Faye glares at him from across the room, hands on her hips. The crease she's had in her forehead since Spike left weeks ago deepens. She huffs melodramatically.

"You know, I just vacuumed there."

He sighs and shakes his head.

Jet sees him before Faye does, and his jaw drops. He emerges from the corridor, casually, as though he never left. He puts a finger to his lips to silence Jet before he leans over Faye, gently blowing on the nape of her neck.

She whirls around and stares at him. A wide spectrum of emotions lick the crease clean from her brow. Tears spring to her eyes. She's quick to wipe them away.

Spike's head cocks to one side. They both smile.

"Jackass," she whispers. "I just mopped there."


	9. Elysium

**Elysium**

* * *

_And it's your heart  
That's so wrong  
Mistaken  
You'll never know  
Your feathered sacred self  
But you can't deny how I feel  
And you can't decide for me_

- Portishead

* * *

She's beautiful, he thinks. Her hair, a burst of violet flame, is thrown forward then back as if by storm as she hauls the man up and over her shoulder, hurling him into a wall. There's something gorgeous and wild in her eyes when the sound of bones breaking explode in their ears. All at once she's liquid silver, easily winning a battle against gravity. She spins, her leg extending to its full length like the blade of a scythe. The heel of her boot strikes the man square in the jaw.

It's a cruel and unnecessary blow.

Cherry on the sundae.

A woman after his own heart.

That is, if his heart didn't belong to another.

"Hey! Snow White!"

He's momentarily caught off guard. She's talking to him. _Snow White._

He's amused.

"Unless you got some woolongs or a pack of cigarettes you're willing to part with, move along. I'm not putting on a free show here," she says coolly.

She's got the unconscious man on the ground and his wrists in handcuffs.

She's formidable. He wonders if Spike is her teacher. He wonders if they're fucking.

Spike has good taste. But then, he already knew that.

"Sorry," he says. "Could never resist a strong, beautiful woman."

The woman's eyes narrow. For a moment she seems to be studying him.

"Do I know you?" she asks.

He smiles and turns to leave.

"No," he replies.

_But you will._


	10. A Sweet Disorder

Much, much longer than a drabble. I'm sorry.

* * *

**A SWEET DISORDER**

_A sweet disorder in the dress_  
_Kindles in clothes a wantonness:—_  
_A lawn about the shoulders thrown_  
_Into a fine distractión,—_  
_An erring lace, which here and there_  
_Enthrals the crimson stomacher,—_  
_A cuff neglectful, and thereby_  
_Ribbands to flow confusedly,—_  
_A winning wave, deserving note,_  
_In the tempestuous petticoat,—_  
_A careless shoe-string, in whose tie_  
_I see a wild civility,—_  
_Do more bewitch me, than when art_  
_Is too precise in every part._

- Robert Herrick

* * *

The thing is she looks prickly. And plastic. Everything about her is so…calculated. It must be exhausting; all that posturing, pouting and powder. Never a single run in her stockings. Never a single hair out of place.

He sits beside her on the dock. The wind is strong and whipping her perfect hair completely out of sorts. She removes her hairband and begins to use her long, white fingers to comb the strands back into submission.

His frustration with her vanity is unexpected. Before she can replace the garishly yellow hairband, he grabs her hand tightly to stop her, and she cries out in surprise.

"Leave it," he says, his voice catching in his throat.

She doesn't know how beautiful she is early in the morning before she's had the chance to put all her armour back on, or in the evening when it's all but worn away. She doesn't know that, since his return, just the scent of her is often the only thing that reminds him that the sun continues to rise and set.

The pupil of his left eye swells, eclipsing its garnet ring. He's afraid his knees might give out. He's afraid she might stop him. But she doesn't. She lets him kiss her. He's not surprised to discover that, beneath the hard shell of the red varnish she paints her lips with, they're soft.

His hands open across her back, fingers curled into her flesh hard and deep enough that it feels like he might pull her apart to tear the devil's wings right out of her. The wings she's been hiding herself behind all this time.


End file.
